Let’s get one thing out of the way:
People talk a LOT about “types.”
Tall. Short. Beard. No beard. Responsible adult. Walking red flag.
But me?
My type is simple: Whoever texts back first.
Yes, standards are important. Yes, self-worth is essential.
But have you ever been left on “delivered” for 3 hours?
Your self-worth… recalculates.
I’m Not Desperate. I’m Efficient.
Do I have a crush? Several.
Do I have loyalty? Absolutely not.
I’m running a rotational draft system over here.
First reply gets the first pick. I don’t make the rules.
(Actually, I do. And they’re chaos.)
Look—romance is a sport. If you wanted me, you should’ve responded before the other contestant hit me with “wyd.”
Do you know how strong a “wyd” is when you’ve been bored for 9 straight hours?
Powerful. Life-changing. Moisturizing.
Ghost Me? Jokes On You—I Haunt Back
If you stop texting me, that’s fine.
I hope your silence brings you peace.
But also know that somewhere… somehow…
I’ve already moved on to someone who uses punctuation and emojis.
Someone brave. Someone available. Someone… who responds within the hour.
Not to be dramatic, but:
If you take too long to reply, I assume you’ve either
a) died,
b) joined a monastery, or
c) no longer want me, and therefore I must emotionally detach like a warrior monk in training.
Whoever Texts Back First Also Gets… Premium Me
Look, I’m adorable, chaotic, and lightly unhinged in a flirty way.
If you message me back fast, you unlock:
✨ Immediate affection
✨ 47 memes
✨ A flirt so smooth it might count as a misdemeanor
✨ Unsolicited pictures of my pet
✨ Me asking “so when are we hanging out?” even though we both know we’re not
If you reply slow?
You get the crusty, distant, watered-down me who pretends they don’t care.
(I care. But I pretend.)
Texting Me is Like a Flash Sale
Message fast → I’m yours.
Message slow → I vanish faster than your motivation on a Monday.
Message three days later → I hope you and your new family are happy together.
Final Thought: Lowered Standards? Maybe. But Also… No.
Some people want perfection.
I just want communication.
Call me crazy. Call me needy. Call me feral.
But at the end of the day?
My type is—and forever will be—whoever texts back first.
The bar is in hell, but at least it’s reachable.
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